


Fits of Passion

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Breathplay, Canon Era, Dry Fucking, Feelings, Fucked Up Consent, Hamilton makes poor choices, Humiliation, M/M, Pain Kink, Power Imbalance, Rank Disparity, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Violence, Washington is not a good dude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 17:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15441663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: There are, among Washington's aides de camp, those who call the general's fits of temper unnatural.





	Fits of Passion

There are, among Washington's aides de camp, those who call the general's fits of temper unnatural.

No one would dream of voicing such an opinion outside the insular walls of headquarters. Of the many demands Washington makes of his men—efficiency, intelligence, competence—loyalty is the most important of all. Fighting a war is a difficult enterprise; fighting _this war_ is treason. Or it will be if they lose. And His Excellency George Washington, commander in chief of the continental army, takes no unnecessary risks in placing his trust.

Thus these whispers never reach the wider ranks. None of Washington's staff would be so foolish as to sow doubt among the soldiers, or to endanger the imperturbable public image Washington has so carefully cultivated.

But privately, when the night is late and candles burn low, some of the young men talk. They murmur quietly about just how terrifying their general can be. How merciless if his exacting demands are not met. How cruel when true anger overtakes him, though Washington has never raised a hand to any of them.

It is a monstrous anger, those voices say. Barely human. Perhaps even demonic. If a soldier hears furniture smashing to pieces behind the closed door to Washington's private chambers, he would do well to keep his distance.

Hamilton knows better.

There is nothing unnatural in Washington's temper. It _is_ vicious. Mercurial and unpredictable, and prone to spiking without obvious provocation. Yes, Washington has destroyed more than his share of furniture in the past several months—chairs mostly, though occasionally a table or basin stand will suffer his wrath—but this lack of control does not make the general a monster.

No. If anything it proves the general's humanity. What sort of creature could withstand the pressures of this war and _not_ erupt now and then? Washington's shoulders are broad and strong, but he is still just a man. Nothing more and nothing less.

Washington pretends not to care that his own aides are scared of him, but this too is a truth Hamilton knows better. He recognizes the toll such a thing can take on a soul obsessed with appearances.

 _Hamilton_ does not fear his general. He never has. And he makes damn sure Washington knows it, even amid the very worst eruptions.

Tonight is such a night. In his place at the work table, busy with the mountains of correspondence that never cease or slow, he hears with the rest of them. The shattering, high and distinct, of porcelain upon a wooden floor. EIther the wash basin or the pitcher beside it is in pieces now. A moment later comes a more substantial crash, too heavy to be a chair or a nightstand. A table, or the sturdy chest of drawers that stand alongside the bed.

"What do we do?" Washington's newest aide asks in a small, startled voice.

 _That_ , at least, is an easy question to answer. The rest of Washington's staff can do nothing, and so Hamilton dismisses them. He sends them calmly away and orders that no one should return until morning. His instructions will be obeyed, tonight just as every such night before, but he still locks the doors before mounting the stairs.

He will not chance being interrupted.

"General." He stands in the open doorway to Washington's private quarters and keeps his voice low. Respectful. His usual habit—riding the edge of insubordination—will not serve here. He needs to be present, an outlet for Washington's tightly wound tension. But antagonizing him… That is a dangerous proposal tonight.

For a moment he wonders if perhaps Washington hasn't heard him speak. Perfect stillness holds the general. Broad shoulders tremble beneath white shirtsleeves, the great blue coat of Washington's uniform discarded in a heap in the corner.

Washington stands at the very center of the room, motionless amid upended chaos. Missives and quills have scattered across the floorboards. One chair has splintered to pieces; the other has been knocked sideways near the overturned table that usually serves as the general's desk. An ink pot spills across a skewed bundle of foolscap on the floor. As Hamilton predicted, the wash basin is in pieces.

The glowing lantern atop the general's trunk appears untouched. Even in his rage, Washington has sense enough not to burn headquarters down around them.

"Your Excellency, can I come in?" Hamilton asks in a voice barely louder than before. Important, under the circumstances, to seek permission. To give Washington the illusion that he is still in control.

This time the words reach their mark. Washington's spine stiffens, and he turns with a jerk. Pivots on his heel to lock fury-wide eyes on his chief of staff.

"Hamilton." There is danger in the hot rumble of that voice. Washington never calls him Alexander in moments like this. Never addresses him by rank, either. It is a strange sort of limbo they share, here in the space between.

It should not make Hamilton's blood warm and his heart pound faster. It sure as hell shouldn't make his cock stir with the first echoes of arousal.

"Sir." He keeps his voice steady. "The rest of your staff has retired for the night." His meaning is clear to both of them. _We are alone. You can do what you please._

"Then get the hell over here," Washington snarls, equal parts hunger and threat.

Hamilton takes the time to close and bolt the door, but otherwise he does not hesitate to obey. He moves quickly, picking his way through the debris. He reaches Washington in a matter of seconds, and holds his breath as he waits to see what his general will do.

Standing this close, the selfish pulse of _wanting_ in Hamilton's blood is even more potent. He knows full well that, whatever is coming, it will hurt. It always does. Pain and pleasure and an edge of degradation as Washington takes what he needs. It should not ignite an even brighter burst of arousal beneath Hamilton's skin, but it does. Just like every time before. Just like the very first moment he offered himself this way, Washington too far gone to refuse, both of them surprised by the dangerous inferno that kindled and ignited between them.

"Sir." Hamilton ducks his head, deferential in a way he reserves for Washington alone. He can feel the heavy stare as silence stretches taut. The promise and potential of knowing there will soon be strong hands on him. Holding him, moving him, forcing him to compliance.

Washington never touches him outside these moments of offering. This is not an affair. A secret, yes, and a dangerous one. But Washington is not his lover. Hamilton doesn't want useless illusions of softness, kindness, gentleness. No dishonest affections that will only vanish come morning. He prefers any hint of feeling to remain safely buried, however imperfectly, beneath ferocity and hunger and careless bruises.

Perhaps he is destined for Hell, using his general this way. But on a night like this, Washington has a very specific need, and Hamilton is more than happy to provide the antidote to what ails him.

At last the stillness breaks. Washington's shifts his weight and turns to face Hamilton head-on.

He raises a hand and slaps Hamilton— _hard_ —knocking his head to the side so forcefully Hamilton's neck twinges.

Hamilton's cheek stings, burning hot from the impact, and his eyes water. His lungs spasm as he sucks in air, and it's all he can do to hold his ground instead of sinking to the floor. 

There are rules. Washington is the only one allowed to put him on his knees.

Hamilton keeps his head turned aside and his eyes downcast. A farce of surrender while he waits to be touched. It seems an eternity before Washington reaches for him, this time yanking Hamilton's queue loose and wrapping his hair in a tight fist. Hamilton breathes a choked sound at the sting along his scalp, as Washington uses the firm grip to _yank_ , forcing his head up. Forcing him to meet the stormy wrath in his general's piercing eyes.

"Get out of that fucking uniform." Washington lets go so abruptly Hamilton nearly loses his balance.

This is different. Normally Washington is all hands-on, prefers to do the honors himself. Tear the fabric away without care for lace and buttons and seams.

Hamilton can adapt to a change in script. He moves efficiently, but takes the time to fold his clothing as he sets it aside. He crosses the floor and rights the intact chair so that he does not need to set fabric down among the spilled ink and shattered ceramic on the floor. Washington's gaze tracks his every movement, and there is something deliciously menacing in his posture. Those broad shoulders are taut with tension, and narrowed eyes flash with impatient hunger. Both hands fist tight at the general's side.

Hamilton shivers at the attention. Anticipation spreads hot along his skin, warming him through despite the relative chill of the room. His cock is hard, arousal rising sharp and impossible to ignore.

He stands perfectly still when his task is complete. Turns to face his general, unsure if he should approach. There are consequences for taking action without being instructed to do so—but there are also consequences for failing to anticipate his general's wants—an impossible conundrum. There are no correct answers.

"Now," Washington murmurs without releasing Hamilton from his overwhelming stare. "Me."

 _Oh_. Oh, this _is_ new. Hamilton swallows and nods. Completely naked now—barefoot—he moves more carefully across the room to avoid stepping on anything sharp. By some miracle he manages the trick, stopping immediately before his general. Barely pausing before starting to struggle with the buttons of Washington's waistcoat.

He treats Washington's clothing with the same deference as his own, more or less. Tucking and folding it carefully, though he has to settle for a relatively clean patch of floor to set the fabric aside. There is no upright or intact furniture near enough to do better, and he dares not move away. But then, since the lack of options is Washington's fault, Hamilton doesn't much worry over leaving his uniform on the ground.

When he is finished undressing his general, boots and all, he stands perfectly still once more. With both of them naked, the differences in their form and stature are starkly obvious. Hamilton, so narrow and small. Men have been mistaking him for frail his entire life. They are _wrong_ , but the fact remains that absent his uniform, he is compact and unimposing. All the more so standing before Washington's intimidating bulk. Broad shoulders appear even stronger like this, bare to the lantern light. Muscular arms naked of the sleeves that usually conceal them, powerful thighs free of tight breeches, a soft stomach and sturdy chest. Terrifying strength in every aspect of the general's naked form.

The sight of him takes Hamilton's breath away. His mouth waters with a need to taste the hard cock curving up toward Washington's belly.

He holds motionless. The unfamiliar script does not change the rules, and Hamilton _is_ capable of caution. Washington is dangerous in this mood; only a fool would deliberately provoke him. No amount of curiosity—no ill-advised desire to see what might happen—is enough to push Hamilton into doing something quite so stupid.

A handful of heartbeats is all the longer he has to wait. Washington moves with alarming speed, raising a hand to Hamilton's throat. Curling strong fingers, his enormous hand large enough to nearly encircle Hamilton's neck. That threatening grip squeezes tight enough to be distinctly uncomfortable, forcing Hamilton's head back, forcing him to meet Washington's eyes once more. Panic and arousal twist into an inextricable knot in Hamilton's gut. Washington has never done this before, never blatantly threatened him.

Hamilton recognizes it for an empty threat—it must be—but there is still a terrifying thrill at the idea.

"You would allow even this?" Washington hisses, grip tightening, careless strength that is certain to leave bruises. "I could choke the very life out of you, and you still would not fight me."

Hamilton cannot breathe. His lungs try reflexively to suck in air, but Washington's hold on his throat is unyielding. When it squeezes the barest fraction more, Hamilton's eyes widen. He cannot breathe, and he is fast growing lightheaded. He reaches for Washington's wrist, but all he manages to do is hold on. Helpless. Weak.

Washington does not release him until the edges of Hamilton's vision are beginning to blur, and the moment he is free Alexander's legs give out beneath him. He feels the rush of vertigo, the moment he begins to fall.

An instant later he feels the absolute inferno of his general's body, as Washington catches and crushes him close.

"Sir?" Hamilton stares, dazed, and does not try to get away. He grunts a surprised sound when Washington lifts him, careless strength, and carries him across the debris-strewn floor—somehow navigating between the more hazardous fragments—only to throw him roughly down on the bed.

Hamilton resists the urge to scramble and right himself when he lands on the rough mattress. The bedclothes are not as soft as they look either, abrasive against naked skin as he lies there half-curled on his side. Motionless. Staring up at his general. He is giddy with anticipation, dizzy with arousal.

Perhaps dizzy for other reasons. His lungs are filling and emptying far too quickly, overcompensating for their recent want of air, and Hamilton's head is spinning.

He does not fight when Washington follows him onto the bed and grabs him again. Strong hands drag Hamilton onto his back, shove him toward the head of the bed. It's a sturdy headboard, thick oak, tall. Hamilton's head connects a little too hard with the polished wood when Washington positions him against it—not quite sitting—but upright, more or less. Hamilton's shoulders press to the smooth wood and his back slouches atop the small mountain of pillows. Another moment and Washington is guiding his hands to the headboard; Hamilton turns his wrists so he can grip the top edge. A risk, trying to intuit what Washington wants of him, but the gamble pays off judging by the bright glint in his general's eyes.

"Do. Not. Move." The command comes out a dangerous rumble, and Hamilton is not remotely tempted to disobey.

He holds perfectly still as Washington eases back, kneeling astride Hamilton's stomach and peering down into his face. They are not quite level enough to kiss, but then, even if they were. Washington has never kissed him. And Hamilton has never asked; even in this there are rules.

"Your Excellency?" Hamilton asks when the silence lasts too long. There is too much stillness. Washington is not really _touching_ him, is simply taking him in as though Hamilton is a fascinating specimen. A mystery to unravel. This is not what they do.

He isn't expecting Washington to hit him again—perhaps retaliation for speaking out of turn, or perhaps unavoidable—not a slap this time, but the back of Washington's hand cracking hard across his cheek. Hamilton grunts at the pain of impact, falls to the side with the force of it. He's panting desperately now. He can't seem to draw a proper breath, can't think past the violent surge of arousal in his blood.

He whimpers—a calculated sound rather than surprise—when Washington's hand fists so tightly in his hair that his scalp stings.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Colonel?" Washington demands in a voice that is pure fire. "You were told not to move."

"I'm sorry," Hamilton gasps as he is dragged upright by the hair and put back where Washington wants him. " _Fuck_ , I'm sorry." His eyes are watering so badly his vision blurs. When the fist in his hair disappears, he grabs the headboard again, swallows thickly as he awaits further instructions.

But there are no instructions. Washington issues no further orders. He does not strike Hamilton again. Instead he rises onto his knees and slips forward, straddling Hamilton's chest now instead of his stomach. Putting his rigid cock directly in Hamilton's line of sight.

"Open your mouth." God, there's so much delicious menace in the demand. So much violent promise. A world of painful consequences if Hamilton should refuse.

He drops his jaw and has no time at all to brace himself before Washington's cock fucks past his parted lips.

Hamilton gags as the entire length forces its way forward, but he grips the headboard tighter and struggles to hold his ground. He manages at first, but as his general's belly crushes against his face, it's too much. His rational mind cannot keep his body's instincts at bay, and he tries to twist away from the choking weight wedging down his throat.

There's nowhere he can go, of course. He's pinned in place, sturdy oak at his back, Washington's body along his front.

He manages not to let go of the headboard, and perhaps it is this that earns him a reprieve. Instead of withdrawing completely in order to hit him again, Washington simply grabs him by the hair—both hands this time—and forces a stillness Hamilton cannot manage on his own.

It's torment. Hamilton didn't have time to brace for this, and he is still choking, his whole body spasming as his throat is violated. Washington holds him there anyway, more than strong enough to force the matter, to keep Hamilton precisely where he belongs: immobile, crying, gagging around the rigid cock.

Fuck, Hamilton should not love it like he does. He shouldn't enjoy the hot streak of tears along his face. He shouldn't thrill at the pain of having his hair pulled. He shouldn't adore the agony of suffocating at his general's pleasure, unable to breathe or even stop choking around the intrusion filling his throat.

"Look at me," Washington snarls.

Hamilton wants to obey, but he can't. Fuck, he _can't_. He still cannot breathe, and he's crying so hard, his eyes squeezed shut, his whole body shuddering at this overload of sensation. He tries to shake his head, and though it doesn't work Washington must certainly feel the attempt.

One of the hands disappears from Hamilton's hair, and he has no time to wonder where it's gone before new pain shoots across his senses. Washington has reached back to capture Hamilton's nipple in a punishing grip and _twist_ , and if Hamilton could scream around his mouthful he is certain there would be any number of soldiers pounding on the door in alarm.

But he can manage no sound at all beyond the helpless wet gagging sounds he has not stopped making since Washington first filled him.

The pain intensifies as Washington twists harder instead of letting go, and Hamilton gets the message. With difficulty he pries his eyes open, strains his gaze upward to meet his general's stare.

"Good boy," Washington says, but does not release his torturous grip. "Keep looking at me." His hips shove forward even though his cock is already buried as far as it can go—the shove of movement crushing his belly even harder against Hamilton's face, knocking his skull against the headboard. It's impossible to maintain his gaze as the movement jostles Washington's length and makes him choke even harder, but Hamilton manages to open his eyes a moment later. Looks to his general again. Pleading without words for Washington to _move_.

Washington does not humor him.

But he does let go his twisting hold on Hamilton's nipple and return to pulling his hair with both hands. "Passing out won't save you," Washington says, as though he can tell just how close Hamilton is to that precipice. "It will not stop me from sodomizing you tonight."

Hamilton shivers at the thought. Fuck, _what_ a thought. He can see it so clearly. Himself, unconscious on this very bed, motionless but for the way his body jolts with every ferocious thrust as his general uses him anyway. As his general _fucks him_ anyway, forcing his thighs apart without resistance, shoving his cock into waiting heat without any care at all for the damage he might do.

It is tempting to let go and call Washington's bluff, but better instincts guide him and he struggles to remain aware.

He is on the verge of failing anyway when Washington finally—blessedly—withdraws from his throat and allows him to breathe. It's a sudden withdrawal and leaves Hamilton coughing and sputtering, whole body trying to curl away as his empty throat spasms wetly and violent shudders wrack through him. Washington does not let him get far. Strong hands are there almost instantly, jerking him back into place, pinning his wrists this time.

The moment Hamilton has even the barest fragment of control over himself, the head of Washington's cock nudges at his lips again. Demanding and impatient.

Hamilton does not wait for the verbal command. He opens his mouth, though he is even less ready now, and relaxes his throat as Washington rolls his hips and fucks forward. No stillness this time. Just a cruel rhythm as Washington thrusts in and out, fucking Hamilton's face without restraint. Hamilton gags every time, but he can't get away. He can't turn his head to escape the onslaught. He can do nothing but take it, try to keep quiet, and accept what his general is forcing down his throat.

He expects Washington to finish like this, despite the previous threat, but again his general surprises him. One moment there's the thick familiar length ramming deep. The next there's nothing, a release of the grip holding his wrists pinned, Washington's weight disappearing from atop his chest.

Hamilton is still coughing and gasping and struggling for air when vertigo takes him again. Strong hands drag him farther down the bed and force his thighs apart. Before Hamilton manages a single effective breath, Washington's weight is back. On top of him. Moving between his thighs, forcing the come-and-saliva-slick line of his cock into Hamilton's body without any warning at all.

Hamilton nearly screams, as much from surprise as from the pain shocking through him. It takes every ounce of self-restraint to lock his jaw and choke the sound down, keep it in his chest where it cannot draw attention, cannot summon witnesses to see the awful things his general does to him—the awful things Hamilton welcomes and allows.

There are no more words now. Washington has no further commands for him. They are beyond communication, and into the realms of animal need, using each other in ways they will not discuss come morning.

Washington fucks him with unrelenting strength. Rutting into him with a wild abandon no one else would ever believe. Only Hamilton sees his general like this. And it's worth it. Fuck, it's worth the agony he will be in tomorrow—the agony tearing him apart now—to know he is irreplaceable. To know Washington will be himself again by morning. Will right his furniture and return to his work, will go back to fighting a war they can barely hope to win, the commanding officer they desperately need.

Hamilton's cock is trapped stiff between their bodies, an agony all its own as the friction carries him towards the edge just as surely as the harsh, jolting thrusts deep inside him.

He does not expect to come first—sometimes he does not come at all despite the frantic mingling of pain and pleasure—but his orgasm overtakes him abruptly. Burning hot and carrying him over the precipice, singeing all his other senses away.

When he returns to himself, Washington is still fucking him, rough and unrelenting. The thrusts are less steady now, and Washington's face is buried hot against Hamilton's throat. Every brutal thrust hurts differently now, his senses overwhelmed in all the wrong ways, and Hamilton tries instinctively to twist free. He doesn't get far before Washington drags him back into place and continues. Fucking him. Panting heavily, hot breaths at the base of Hamilton's throat, groans of pleasure filling the overheated air.

He bites Hamilton's shoulder when he comes, muffling a wild moan of release. 

The moments after are strange. Usually Washington is quick to climb off of him and send him on his way. If Hamilton is too hurt to go about his business unaided, there will be more involved followup. Washington helping him, tending the worst of his injuries, dressing him. Awkward but necessary. Neither of them ever prolongs things once they reach this point.

But for a long time Washington does not move. His softening cock remains a distracting presence inside Hamilton's aching and shuddering body, his bulk between splayed thighs heavy and solid, his breath slowing by degrees.

Eventually he props himself on one arm, still without pulling out, and asks, "Are you all right, my boy?"

Hamilton's brow furrows in confusion. "Of course I am. Sir— What's wrong? Why are you—"

Another surprise cuts him off—Washington's mouth on his—hard and sudden. Kissing him. Fuck, Washington is kissing him. This has never happened before, and Hamilton does not know what to do.

Melting into the kiss is a terrible choice, but he finds himself doing it anyway. Opening for the tentative thrust of Washington's tongue, winding his arms around broad shoulders and holding on tightly as his general claims his mouth far more gently than he has just finished claiming Hamilton's body.

This is wrong. This is not what they do.

Hamilton's heart swells dangerously, because he has not allowed himself to want this.

Too soon Washington breaks from the kiss and eases from between Hamilton's legs. Uncomfortable physically, but it's not the discomfort that makes the distance more than Hamilton can bear.

"I'm sorry," Washington says as he pushes himself upright and moves toward the edge of the bed. "I shouldn't have done that."

"Done what?" Hamilton asks, still breathless and confused. "Kissed me?" Ludicrous, maybe, to think Washington might be apologizing for the least of the transgressions to pass between them tonight. But the rest of this they've done so many times. A dozen variations, perhaps more. Washington has hit him before. Has fucked him before. His pinned him and pulled his hair and choked him on cock. There are other things that changed this time, but something tells Hamilton it is the kiss throwing his general off balance now.

Washington is watching him closely, so Hamilton moves carefully as he pushes himself into a sitting position. He makes no outward sign of discomfort. The physical pain is irrelevant. It's welcome, even. They have other matters to discuss.

"You have given me a great many things, Alexander. More than I should ever have accepted. But affection has never been on offer. I had no right."

Hamilton's heart nearly stops in his chest and he gawps at Washington. He cannot have heard correctly.

But he _has_ heard correctly. There is no misinterpreting Washington's words. The wistfulness twining alongside quiet guilt. It isn't possible, but here they are. Hamilton draws a shaky breath. He is more terrified now than he has ever been in all their most violent encounters, because taking dangerous risks with his body is one thing. Gambling his heart is another entirely.

"What if it _is_ on offer?" The question comes out too quiet, and he forces more strength into his voice. "What if I do feel affection for you? What happens then?"

Washington stares at him. Wide eyes, stiff shoulders, blatant disbelief. "Alexander, don't be ridiculous. You have sacrificed enough, you cannot—"

"I'm not offering myself as a sacrifice," Hamilton blurts. "That's _never_ been what this is about. If— If you wanted something else… If you wanted _more_ …"

His words are failing him. His words _never_ fail him. It is strange. Terrifying and awful. How can he make Washington understand what he is offering if he cannot find the words?

He almost doesn't believe it when Washington gives him a tiny, hesitant smile and says, "If we are _something more_ , I don't think I could continue to use you this way."

Hamilton moves fast, spurred on by a pulse of possessive eagerness. He is across the bed in an instant, climbing astride Washington's lap despite the pained protest from his misused body. He braces both hands on Washington's shoulders and peers into his general's face. A moment to gather himself, and then he presses his mouth to Washington's, letting his eyes drift closed and praying just this once he can make his point without words.

The kiss ends too soon, but Washington does not push him away. Hamilton opens his eyes. He finds Washington staring at him, something like wonder in his handsome face.

A steadying breath is all the hesitation Hamilton allows himself. "Perhaps if we are something more, I can make you understand how very much I enjoy being used."

Washington's brow furrows. "Even when I hurt you?"

"Especially when you hurt me."

Those thick brows arch high as Washington's stare goes wide and startled. 

"My boy," he says in a voice of rumbling approval. "You are an endless font of surprises."

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: **[Demon](https://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/103669.html)**


End file.
